


Clear As Bitter Potion

by intotheruins



Category: Alice in Wonderland (Movies - Burton), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Dark subjects treated lightly, Everyone is late for tea, Everyone is manipulating each other, Intelligent Killian, M/M, Matchmaking, Multi, Seduction, Spells Gone Wrong, and the march hare is sick of it, basically the fic is as weird as these tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13384620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: A spell gone wrong, two former enemies trapped together in Wonderland, a queen who isn't nearly as delicate as she pretends to be, and a mirror that refuses to answer a question Gold's been desperate to understand for weeks now: how exactly have Killian's feelings changed towards the imp who was once his greatest enemy?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote part one of this fic as an xmas present for my friend [enulacampana](http://enulacampana.tumblr.com), who has a thing for Golden Hook, White Imp (Mirana/Gold), and crossing these two fandoms. Pretty sure I now have a thing for it, too, oops.

“This is all your bloody fault,” Killian announces. He plunks down on a massively over-sized toadstool, crosses his arms over a shirt gaped so wide it might as well not even be there, and juts out his lower lip.

There is something deeply disturbing about the pirate's ability to be little boy and tempting rogue simultaneously, but Gold doesn't have time to examine his likely (decidedly) perverted psyche right now because Killian is, unfortunately, correct.

This is definitely his fault.

“If you hadn't waltzed into my shop and distracted me, we wouldn't be here. So I think you'll find that it's _your_ fault, dearie.”

Killian's lower lip quivers just a bit, and Gold bites back a self-satisfied smirk. Just because it's his fault doesn't mean he has to admit it.

“What were you trying to do?” Killian's arms relax a bit, sliding down to show off the thick hair covering his chest. Gold's fingers twitch with the irrational urge to pet him and see if he purrs.

Gold sighs, and puts his hands in his pockets. Just to be safe. “That's none of your concern. It wasn't harmful, I assure you.”

Killian snorts. “Yeah, because your assurances mean so much. So, where are we?”

Another sigh, this one pulled from the very depths of his soul. For lack of any better way to react, Gold sinks onto the toadstool beside Killian and lifts his hand, waving it in a mockery of his imp self's showy style.

“Welcome to Wonderland.”

~

It was amazing how the smallest distraction could cause such a large error in concentration. A fly lands just a bit too close, and now there's a butterfinger in the pot where there should be wolfsbane. And a large distraction, well... Mirana sighs. She's grateful she's mostly alone, only one to see when she reaches out and knocks the only object still standing to the floor. The glass vile makes a satisfying crash as it shatters against stone. Just a bit musical, actually, and the thought makes her smile.

Across the room, the March Hare's left eye twitches. One ear stands straight up—the other points directly to the ruined potion currently turning the floor a magnificent shade of purple.

“You forgot the sugar,” the Hare says. His eye twitches again. His paw, currently holding open the door he'd slammed into the wall during his entrance, slides in slow motion until it finally falls away to slap against his leg.

Mirana allows herself a small giggle. She never knows what the March Hare is going to say (or do, for that matter). He might be right, though—there was a definitely a bitter edge to the potion's scent.

“Is that all you came here to tell me?”

The Hare tilts his head so far one of his ears touches the floor. “Intruders!” he yelps. “From the mirror. They're late for tea!”

Aaah, the evil queen again, perhaps? She'd come a few times when the new Red Queen was around. Mirana rather liked her, despite all the black-edged rage constantly spilling from her soul. Such a wonderfully independent woman, so full of magic, if only she didn't use it to destroy so much.

“Well, let's take a look, shall we?”

Mirana slides the table aside and glides over to the back wall, which is lined entirely with tall wooden shelves. She takes a little, cloudy crystal from a hand-woven basket. Might as well use the mess for something.

A quick breath for swift travel and a kiss (to counter the bitterness on the floor) and Mirana drops the crystal into the potion. An image spreads like a stain from where the crystal disappeared, revealing two men. Neither are what they appear to be, but the magic isn't quite strong enough for her to pick out why.

Fortunately, they're headed straight for Marmoreal.

~

After four hours of walking in the shock of color that is Wonderland, the washed out purity of Marmoreal should be a relief. Instead, Gold focuses on the deep gray of his suit jacket or the black of Killian's leather coat—anything that isn't the barren glare of white.

It's not that white has anything to do with certain magics—applying color to indicate whether magic is light or dark has always been a strange concept to him. Magic is intent, and emotion, and is never pure no matter who might be casting the spell.

No, it's just that this much white is too empty. Cold. He likes warm colors, and variety. Colors should be the comfort of a welcome home, not this... sterile hospital hall, devoid of life.

Beside him, Killian mutters something about keeping it all clean. Gold can't help but agree, and the chuckle slips free before he can stop it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Killian grin, quick and sharp-edged with surprise.

Damn. It's not the first time in recent weeks Gold has seen that particular smile. The rush of warmth pooling in his chest isn't unfamiliar, either. They haven't been enemies since Neverland, but surely their history hasn't been forgotten enough to be so easily cast aside.

“This place is bloody awful,” Killian says. “Seems like I should be smelling bleach right now.”

“Indeed.” Gold hides his twinge of surprise in a flex of his fingers. The pirate turned out to be far more intelligent than Gold would have given him credit for. He absorbed information from a modern world like he needed it to live. It took him only a day to competently use his phone, and only a few more days to learn what apps were and how to use them. He had recently upgraded to a smartphone, and with his new, modern apparel, Gold couldn't help but think sometimes that Killian looked as though he'd been born in that realm. He picked up on power lines and computers mostly on his own (though he insisted on calling the internet “magic”) and if Gold left him alone in the shop, he'd come back to find Killian had taken something apart to inspect all the bits that made it work.

“So what's the next step?” Killian pauses to reach up and rub the petal of a blossom between his fingers. “Hey, this has some pink in it.”

Gold glances over and, sure enough, the tree's blossoms are blushed with a soft pink made vibrant by all the white surrounding it. “The next step,” he starts, then pauses as an entire blossom breaks away to drift into Killian's hair. His fingers twitch—he clenches them into a fist. “If the information I've collected on this place is correct, the White Queen will know we're here. So, we wait.”

The wait is not a long one. Killian has stepped back from the tree, a single petal still caught between his fingers, when a woman dressed all in white drifts around the corner. Or floats, perhaps. She moves like one of the blossoms fallen from the branch; steady and deliberate, so fragile as it's caught up in the wind.

Only Gold can smell the power on her, see the bright gleam of it in eyes far more clever than her airy demeanor would suggest. It's an act as much as Gold's imp is an act, and the kinship he immediately feels for it makes him pause to collect himself.

“Welcome to Marmoreal.” Her voice is the same as her manner—light, airy, just a delicate flower, nothing to see here.

Gold smirks. He hid behind over-the-top flamboyance with his power on full display. She hides any hint of the power. His mind brings up the image of a venus flytrap, a seemingly harmless plant until it closes around its prey.

Gold closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. In the span of five seconds, he's gone from kinship to infatuation. Wonderful. As if he didn't have enough to worry about with the pirate.

“I am Mirana.” She comes closer, holding out one hand. Gold takes it and presses a kiss to the back—the skin there is soft, but he can feel the rough brush of callouses against his palm.

His eyes are drawn to the swish of her dress as she steps back; her feet are bare. Such a little detail, yet he has to force himself to lift his gaze.

“Rumplestiltskin,” he says, and offers a low bow, complete with a small flourish of his hand. “And this is Killian Jones.”

“Captain,” the pirate adds as he steps forward to take her hand. He holds eye contact as he dips to kiss her knuckles, and she giggles.

Gold scowls.

“You came through the mirror by mistake.” Mirana steps away again, and again Gold's eyes are drawn to slender feet and delicate ankles—though if they are anything like the woman herself, they aren't nearly as delicate as they appear. “What spell were you attempting to cast?”

Gold clears his throat and glances away, but not before he sees Killian turn to stare pointedly in his direction.

“There was a mirror involved,” is all he says.

“Hm, I see.” Mirana glances between the two of them and smiles. “Well, I'm sure we can get you home.”

“Why can't we just go through this mirror?” Killian asks.

“Because we didn't come directly through it.” Gold takes a small, round mirror from his pocket and holds it up to Killian's eye level. “I was using this, and it became an extension of Wonderland's mirror when you interrupted me. The magic here has strict rules. We have to go back the way we came, and I'm not yet certain of what I did to make this happen.”

“And I have greater knowledge of Wonderland's magic,” Mirana finishes. “So together, we will find your path home. But for now, rest, and I'll have some supper made.”

~

Gold and Killian are given adjoining rooms. Unlike most of the castle, which is as airy and barren as the outside, the room has a low ceiling and a massive, open fireplace. The hearth is a collection of colorful stones, deep reds and greens and a scattering of brown. The walls are a dark gray, and the thick rug a similar shade of red to the hearth's stones. Perhaps Mirana can read minds. He wonders what Killian's room looks like, and his hand is on the doorknob before he consciously thinks to do so.

It seems Killian had the same idea because when Gold swings open the door, the pirate is standing there with his hand outstretched.

“Gold.” Killian lets his hand fall and shuffles his feet. He ducks his head, and he's all little boy until he glances up through his lashes and offers a coy smile.

“Pirate.” Gold is embarrassingly proud of himself for not stammering.

“I was just...” Killian flaps a hand toward Gold's room. “Mine's all done up in blues and white and... well, reminds me of the sea.”

Interesting. Has she spelled the castle to respond to her guests? A rather frivolous use of magic, but impressive nonetheless.

“Well.” Gold steps back, just enough for Killian to squeeze passed him. “Come in.”

The pirate sizes up the space Gold has left him. He bites his lip and, slowly, turns so he's facing Gold.

There's nothing coy about the way Killian presses his chest against Gold's as he slips by.

_What do you want?_ It's on his tongue but he bites it—literally—back. He's not sure if he meant to ask Killian, or himself.

“Huh. Not what I was expecting.”

Gold closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he turns. The pirate is standing in the middle of the room, turning slowly in a circle to take everything in.

“And what exactly were you expecting?”

“More black, maybe?” Killian flashes a grin. “I don't know, this is just... warmer than I'd have thought.”

“I'm very warm.” Gold takes a slow, deliberate step in Killian's direction. “Warm like an autumn night by the fire. Like slow burning embers.” He reaches out and trails his fingers down Killian's bicep, smirking when Killian swallows hard. “Deliberate,” Gold murmurs. He leans in, so his words are hot breath on the shell of the pirate's ear. “Intent. Purposeful.”

He dares to let his hand come to rest over Killian's pounding heart.

“But your purpose.” And now Killian is pressing them together so that it's his lips brushing Gold's ear. “Is always hidden. Have some balls, mate.”

Gold blinks, and in that second Killian retreats to his own room.

~

So. Killian wants him to make the first move.

He supposes it's only fair. With their convoluted history, it makes sense that Killian would want Gold to put himself out there first... or perhaps the pirate just likes to be courted. Either way, Gold is...

He hisses through clenched teeth, kicks out at the hearth and relishes the blunt throb of pain in his toes.

“Pain rarely solves anything, you know.”

With all the power of the Dark One at his disposal, Gold is used to seeing all around him, to knowing someone is coming before they realize he's there. So the sudden, light voice at his back makes him spit out a curse as he whirls to face... Mirana, just Mirana, all is well.

Though, he's not sure Mirana is _just_ anything.

“I've always had good results with it.”

Mirana smiles. “No, you just thought you did. Now!” She claps her hands in a child-like display of delight. “What are we going to do about your pirate?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had to adjust the ships a bit: Mirana became far more involved than I anticipated. The endgame is still Killian/Gold, but until then Mirana definitely has her fingers in everyone's pies :D. 
> 
> Also: this fic assumes that Belle and Rumple are just friends. Forgot to mention that in the first chapter.

Rumplestiltskin is adorable.

Mirana has just decided this, at least consciously. More than likely she came to the conclusion when she caught him staring at her feet, but only in the last few minutes has she taken the idea out and turned it over in her hands like a well-loved crystal.

He is adorable, but in the way a wild animal can be adorable. Right now, he's warm and well-fed and lazy, stretched out in a chair by the fire with his eyes half closed. She hesitates to pin a particular animal on him—she thought perhaps a wolf, but Killian is decidedly more wolf-like. Perhaps he is a conglomeration of traits both stolen and self-made, his own hybrid predator. All that coiled, dangerous energy is delicious, a kind of nourishment she hasn't experienced in years—and pulled over that strange animal is the facade of a gentleman, with his soft voice and his warm eyes and the slightest flush to his ears when he pulls his gaze away from the peek of her toes from under her skirt.

Absolutely adorable. Mirana wiggles her toes, then curls them in delight when that flush seeps into Rumple's cheeks.

If she wasn't so intent on helping him achieve his goal, she might have him right now, right there in that chair. She'd leave her dress on, she decides, just pull him out of his trousers and sit prettily on his cock, let them both thrill in their facades for a few minutes before opening the cage door.

Maybe she'll have him anyway.

Rumplestiltskin shifts in his seat, his knees falling open. Mirana honestly isn't sure if the move is conscious or not, but she's instantly enamored of the idea that he's just offered up his own version of submission.

Interesting, how one person could react differently to different partners. If Killian were here, Rumple would demand his submission. He would be in perfect control, offering nothing until Killian showed his belly—or better yet, his throat—but once he had his wolf tamed, he would be giving. Killian would be begging for him by the end, would thrill in the slightest of touches. Rumple would be _masterful,_ and the thought alone makes her shiver. 

Yet with her, he gives away the control without even realizing it. Does he think she's more powerful? Or does he simply respond to her ability to hide that power even more effectively than he does?

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, the hint of a smile curling into the corner of his mouth. It gleams in his eyes and oh, yes, he is definitely a predator. Even his _voice_ is dangerous, strong lilts and soft pitches that seduce, tug, deceive until the moment he can clamp down his jaws.

Mirana smiles, lets just a hint of her own predator into it, and says nothing. Rumple's smile widens. He smooths his palms over his thighs, drags them up again, only to settle them deliberately on the arms of his chair.

“Your wolf,” Mirana begins—she likes the idea of it, thinks Killian would be a feisty omega, willing to fight but looking for someone to take care of him. “How long have you known him?”

Rumplestiltskin arches one eyebrow, then chuckles and settles back into his chair, nodding. To himself or her, she's not sure. “A long time. Centuries, technically.”

Oh, there was a story there. Delightful, but for another time.

“And how did you meet?”

“He stole my wife.” Rumple tips his head to scowl into the crackling fire, but just as quickly his expression melts into something tight. Reluctant. “Well. At the time, I... that's how it seemed.”

“Oh?” Mirana prompts, hiding her smile when Rumplestiltskin scowls again, this time at her.

Adorable.

“My wife was unhappy,” he admits. “Desperately unhappy, and I knew that. Knew I was the cause of it. But at the time, I couldn't bear the thought that she hated me that much, that she'd be willing to go so far as to abandon our son. And later, when I became the Dark One, it was my hand that took her life. Not the pirate. Me.”

He clenches his right hand into a fist, and turns his face back toward the flame. The deep orange light licks over his face, a puppy trying to soothe its master.

“Ah, and he swore revenge?” The questioning lilt is barely there, and she isn't at all surprised when he nods.

He backtracks after that, tells her about the curse Regina cast, about Storybrooke and saviors and finding his son. Of Killian's attempt on his life, and finally their cautious alliance.

“It's only been a year since then,” he says. “Yet within the last few months... you'd never know we were enemies. He's always in my shop, always underfoot, watching me work. He takes clocks and old gadgets apart and puts them back together. Sits on the floor like a little boy while he does it, makes me want to—” he lets out a huff and shakes his head. “I don't understand how we've gone from wanting to kill each other to... this.”

He finds her gaze then, imploring, practically begging her to make him understand. She shivers, just a bit, enough to hide it from his sight—the power he's just handing over to her is becoming intoxicating. She's going to have to be cautious about keeping up appearances when she leaves this room.

“Well,” she says slowly. “You have quite literally lived several lifetimes. Both of you. Are you exactly the same as you were then?”

Rumple tilts his head, fingers flexing absently against the arm of the chair as he thinks. “No,” he says finally. “Not at all.”

“And Killian, is he the same?”

“Definitely not,” he says, much more quickly.

“So, it's more like... like past lives. Something that affects you now, but indirectly. And the answer is simple.”

She lets him think about it for a minute, smiling, enjoying the visible struggle as he attempts to find that answer just to impress her.

“Set it aside,” she says finally, taking pity on him. “And be who you are now.”

Rumple scowls—clearly, he is not a fan of simple. She finds this both fitting for his character and profoundly funny, and allows her amusement to show in a girlish giggle that doesn't fool him for a second.

“Fine,” he snaps. “What about the pirate? The mirror didn't answer my question.”

Ah, so that's the spell he attempted. Asking a mirror anything could be tricky business. It almost always answered your question, but never directly, never in the easiest way. Here he is scowling at simplicity, asking all the wrong sources for answers... yet begging her with desperate eyes for an easy answer.

The amusement escapes in the form of a rich chuckle this time. Men could be so silly.

“What does Killian say?” she asks.

Rumplestiltskin sighs. “He wants,” he says. Hesitates. “He wants me to initiate.”

“So!” She can't keep the delight out of her voice. “That means he wants you.”

“Yes, but.”

Rumple cuts himself off with a gnash of his teeth. Goes back to scowling at the fire. Mirana leans forward, eyes watching the play of light on his face and wondering what it would be like to lick the heat from his cheek.

“But?” she prompts.

His fingers clench into the arms of the chair; his legs draw up just slightly. Defensive. Mirana's eyes widen and she only just keeps herself from letting out an excited little squeak.

He didn't ask the mirror if Killian wants him. He knows that. He asked the mirror if Killian _loves him._

“You'll have to tell me eventually,” she says, as though she hasn't just worked it out herself. “I'll need every detail of the spell if we're going to get you back to your land.”

Rumple sighs, sharp this time. “I know. Later.”

Later. Of course. He won't make a move because he doesn't know, can't tell if Killian only wants a tumble or something _more._ Won't tell her what she needs because he's afraid.

That's fine. She's thrilled to have them for as long as they'll stay.

~

She's on her way to Killian's room when the March Hare explodes out from behind a wall-length tapestry of Alice's battle with the Jabberwocky. He hurls a spoon at her, which she ducks and allows to skitter across the stone floor to disappear under a doorway.

“Late!” he squawks. He hurls a second object—an after dinner mint. This one she catches and pops into her mouth with a smile. “You're all late!”

“All of us?” When _was_ the last time she sat down to one of the March Hare's tea parties? Not since the Hatter left, she thinks.

“All of you!” He stomps one foot against the floor three times and then freezes, one ear twitching in a rhythmic, somewhat hypnotic way.

Mirana watches a moment. His eyes twitch to her hands, and she absently raises them in their usual airy manner.

“Well.” Mirana smiles. “Where is the party, then?”

The Hare's ear twitches more rapidly before he explodes into action, crashing off the wall and scrabbling to right himself before bounding halfway down the hall. He points dramatically, paw quivering, at a door that leads to one of the living quarters. Possibly his own.

“We'll be right there,” she calls, bowing slightly and extending a hand towards him with a showy swirl. He scoffs loudly but appears to relax, and disappears into (his?) room.

Giggling, Mirana continues down the hall to Killian's room. His questioning can wait—for now, she is far too curious to see how the two of them will handle a tea party with the only being she knows who is crazier than the Mad Hatter.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When three soft raps come at his door, Killian swings it open and holds up the object in his hand at eye level. He doesn't care who's outside, they just have to see this.

It's Mirana, and she instantly begins to giggle. She lifts a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound, though her wide eyes continue to shine with mirth.

“This just came spinning under my door and almost slide right into the fireplace,” Killian says, shaking the spoon in his hand. He barely refrains from adding _what the hell,_ though he suspects she wouldn't mind. He may not be the most observant person in the world, but even he can see that Mirana isn't what she pretends to be. 

“Apologies.” She extends the hand previously covering her mouth and plucks the spoon from his grip. “The March Hare has a tendency to throw things when he's agitated. Would you be so kind as to join us for a tea party?”

Killian narrows his eyes. “Will he be throwing anything else at us?”

“Without a doubt.”

The serene smile on her face, and the casual way she says it, makes Killian chuckle and shake his head, though not in denial. “I would be glad to join you, my lady.”

He gives a little bow, just for show, and grins when she lets out another of those girlish giggles. For a moment, just a moment, he finds himself wondering what other sorts of sounds he could coax from her.

Which is... odd, really, considering his unsettling fixation with the crocodile.

“Three doors down and to your left,” Mirana says, gently waving a hand in that general direction. “Meet us there in fifteen minutes.”

She floats a small ways down the hall—towards Gold's room, if he's not mistaken. He closes the door before he can find out.

A tea party. Sounds like something for children, though he doubts most children's tea parties star a mad hare with self-control problems. Might be more interesting if they did.

~

Fifteen minutes later, Killian is sitting in a chair that leaves his feet dangling a good foot off the ground, pushed up close to a table high enough to leave only five or six feet between the surface and the low ceiling. It runs nearly the length of the room, butting up close enough to the door that Killian was forced to slink sideways for several steps to get around it. The March Hare's bed is in roughly the center underneath, along with a collection of half-unraveled yarn balls, what has to be at least a hundred crooked spoons, and a single sugar cube balanced precariously on one of his bed posts.

At the end of the table, Mirana sits primly in her over-sized chair, hands folded in her lap and a smile on her face that is a touch too amused to be as serene as usual. Gold is placed beside Killian, and he has chosen to sit cross-legged in his own, making him look more like the imp of the Enchanted Forest than the odd, soft spoken man he's become in Storybrooke.

He keeps glancing at Killian's feet, to his face, and back to the table with a scowl that is growing deep enough to leave lines etched into his eyes and mouth.

In the center of the table, the March Hare is either singing in another language or making up words on the spot while stirring sugar into a tea pot the size of a large cauldron. Killian's very curious to see how exactly he intends to pour the tea when that pot is bigger than the Hare himself. He doesn't bother wondering why the table, and everything on it, is so large in the first place—it was rather clear just from the journey here that things don't necessarily make sense in Wonderland. Or if they do, it's a kind of sense that eludes him.

Gold shifts in his seat. Sighs. Glances down at Killian's feet again.

On a hunch, Killian begins swinging his legs like a child in his parent's chair. A flush pools in Gold's cheeks—he ducks his head and scowls all the more deeply at the empty tea cup in front of him.

Killian manages to keep the grin from his lips, but only just.

The tea cup in front of him abruptly vanishes. The Hare stomps over to his pot, kicks the lid resting beside it off the table, and dunks the whole cup inside.

Ah. Well, considering the circumstances, that _does_ make sense.

By the time the Hare makes it back to Killian, he's sloshed more than half the tea onto the table or his own pants. Killian takes it anyway, and manages not to wince at the too-sweet taste when he takes a sip. The Hare beams, lets out a stream of words that have to be made up (but at least they sound happy) and scurries over to snatch Gold's cup.

The cups and plates are normal sized. Killian stares at them for a moment before a fit of snickers overtakes him and he has to quickly set his cup down.

A throaty chuckle comes from the other end of the table and oh. _Oh._ Mirana's giggles are delightful, but this sound reaches right between Killian's legs and squeezes, and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning.

Curious, he glances at Gold and finds him staring at Mirana with near-black eyes.

“No good!” The Hare yelps suddenly—and hurls Gold's cup in his face.

Tea rushes over Gold's hair, his eyebrows, his nose, dripping down over a mouth frozen into a thin line of surprise. The cup topples onto the table and spins on its side for a moment before tipping onto its handle, defeated.

The Hare's ears twitch. One droops down over his shoulder, the other springs straight up and quivers. He watches Gold's hands rise and plant themselves flat on the table before exploding into action, scurrying across the table and knocking scones and cupcakes out of their plates until he can lunge behind Mirana's chair.

Killian lasts three seconds before he laughs so hard he crashes to the floor.

~

“Stop it,” Gold mutters.

It's been about ten minutes since the March Hare hurled the cup, and maybe five since Killian remembered how to breathe. He's holding a clean rag that Mirana produced from thin air (possibly literally?) and is wiping tea from Gold's nose.

Killian chuckles, then bites the inside of his lip to stop himself. “Stop laughing, or stop cleaning you up?”

Gold sighs. He shuffles his feet, kicks backwards so his heel strikes the leg of the chair, but he doesn't move away.

“Stop laughing,” he says finally.

“Not sure I can help you there, mate,” Killian says with a grin. “There's tea in your _ears._ ”

Gold huffs, but he still doesn't move when Killian shifts the rag to clean those ears. Then down, wiping softly at his throat, soaking up what he can from the collar of his shirt. Lingering, letting his fingers brush against rough, warm skin.

“Might want to take a bath,” Killian murmurs. “Think some of it got under your shirt.”

A sharp breath and a hard swallow, and Gold's tipping his head back slightly, eyes half-closed. “Maybe you should check.”

“Hm.” Killian smiles, just a little thing, and shakes his head. “Doesn't count, mate.”

Judging from the way Gold's gaze falls, he understands.

“Well then!” Mirana is suddenly at his side, slipping an arm through his and tugging him away. “Let's allow Rumplestiltskin to get cleaned up, shall we?”

Gold opens his mouth as though to protest, but Mirana is sweeping Killian out the door before either of them can say a word. The strength she displays both surprises and thrills Killian, and he allows her to guide him down the hall to his room.

“That was a rather short party,” he says as he's pushed inside. Another thrill of... anticipation? Uncertainty? Thrums down his spine when she steps inside and closes the door.

“The March Hare's tea parties are never long,” she says with a smile. “I believe the longest was forty minutes. Quite the record, for him. Now.” She places a hand on his chest. “Sit.”

She shoves, and Killian stumbles until his knees hit the bed and he sits, hard, nearly sprawling onto his back.

“Good boy.” The words are gentle enough to be pleasant, firm enough to make him shiver. He watches her with wide eyes as she sits on the bed beside him and places a hand on his thigh.

Right. He's in trouble. As if he needed any more of that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Tell me,” Mirana says, stroking a hand down Killian's thigh to draw circles around his knee, “What you want from Rumplestiltskin.”

“Nothing,” Killian snaps. He shoves himself up onto his elbows and lets out a huff, lowering eyes and lids in apology. “Rumplestiltskin is the name of the imp who killed my love. He's not... this one is different.”

“Mm.” Interesting. Mirana dances her fingertips up Killian's leg, tracing the jut of a hipbone, spidering over a flat belly. Up, up, to the gaping v of his shirt and the black hair covering his chest. “Gold, then.”

“I...” Killian turns his head to stare at the cold fireplace, though he doesn't pull away as she slides her fingers into his chest hair. Rather, he arches into it with a tiny, choked off groan that brings a pleasing flush to his cheeks.

He's so delightfully furry, such a thick, dark pelt. She wants to tug aside his shirt and see if it spreads all the way down to his hips. Wants to rub his belly, too—maybe he'll kick his leg like a happy dog. The thought is bestial enough to make her shiver, and she wonders idly if she has the ingredients required to cast a spell that would allow him to form a knot.

Ohh, but that's not right. No, she should make him slick, and give Gold the knot. Or maybe she'll get really creative, adjust some things between her legs—temporarily, of course—but the thought of knotting him herself, of being deep inside slick heat and pinning him with her cock, sends a flush of heat through her body and makes her clit throb.

“Love?” Killian murmurs, and Mirana blinks. Her hand has traveled, burrowing beneath his shirt to find that oh, yes, the hair is here, too. She's dangerously close to the waistline of his pants. Just a nudge, a little slip and she could tuck her pinky finger underneath.

“Tell me,” she coaxes, blinking at him with huge eyes, as though she has no idea what her hand is up to. His muscles ripple and heave as he draws in a deep breath, swallows hard. His adam's apple bobs and she's gripped by the urge to bite it, to force his head back in submission. Yes, she sees very clearly why Gold fancies him—why he wants to own him.

She could have him on a leash made of fine, styled leather. Collared and tied down, and he would love it so long as someone was stroking his hair.

Any of his hair, and that makes her grin in a way that has Killian's eyes widening even as his legs fall open. Just like Gold. Offering himself.

She wonders if they have any idea how much power they're giving her.

“You already know,” Killian says, just a bit breathless.

“Of course.” She doesn't bother playing coy with Killian. Gold likes it, likes to guess at her nature and what she might be thinking, but Killian craves a strong hand. “But you need to say it. I won't tell him, shh. You're safe.” She draws her hand, reluctantly, away from his belly to stroke his jaw instead, just as pleasingly furry, if a bit coarser.

Killian swallows again, and leans into her hand. Says softly, “I want him,” and then looks away quickly, wide-eyed and vacant into the air. He clears his throat and blinks rapidly a few times; Mirana can see him actively attempting to regain his rogue-like composure.

“Is that all?” She strokes her thumb firmly over his bottom lip, startling him, drawing his attention back to her. She has the sudden urge to slap him, to watch his cheek color and his lips form a surprised sound of pain. Arousal? Yes... yes, definitely arousal. He would like to be hurt a little. Owned.

It takes everything she has not to bite her lip and give herself away.

“Yes.” His eyes cut to the side when he says it.

Fine. Let him keep his secret, for now. She'll have it out of them both before she's done, and it will be no small pleasure.

Mirana lets her hand travel downwards again. She tugs up his shirt, runs her fingers through the fur on his stomach. Thinks of him on his back with his legs spread, his cock a hot red, his hole stretched wide—she'd make her cock thick, her knot even thicker, trapping him in place and leaving him helpless. Would she let him come? Or leave him on that angry edge, not quite able to tip over. Maybe she'd make him squirm, watch as he tried to make himself orgasm from her cock alone.

It's an appealing image, but just as appealing is the thought of taking care of him. Of stroking his hair and rocking into him, of letting him suckle at her breasts like a babe seeking nourishment. He'd submit so prettily either way. She imagines Rumple lying beside them, stretched out on his side, pressing kisses to Killian's exposed throat, rubbing the pads of his fingers teasingly along the slick head of his cock. He'd tip his head back occasionally, offering kisses that Mirana would sip from his lips—his submission would be subtle, but no less heady.

Mirana withdraws from her fantasy enough to realize she's wet, and her clit is now one hot, steady throb of arousal. Killian's pants are decidedly distended around a sizable bulge—his belly heaves beneath her hand as he pants. Would he stick his tongue out, like a real dog? She chuckles at the thought and watches his pupils dilate at the sound.

It would be so easy to sling a leg over his waist and rut against him, but... no. Not yet.

“Think about what you want, Killian,” Mirana murmurs, smiling with just a hint of mischief as she stands. Killian whimpers, softly.

“Right now?” He drops his knees wider and winks at her, and she laughs at his adorable attempt to scrabble at any illusion of control.

“Certainly.” She offers a little wink of her own. “But I find I prefer to sleep on such matters.”

She sweeps out the door before he can do more than groan, stifling her amusement behind a delicate hand until she's well out of earshot.

~

Time is fickle in Wonderland.

In some ways, the days move as they do on most worlds... or at least, they appear to. There is a sunrise and sunset, and an expanse of time between, but Gold finds himself waking well before dawn, despite his inner clock telling him the sun should have been coming up by now. Time is still, or attempting to run backward uphill—and if anything Gold has heard about the entity embodying Time is true, he can easily envision the last one.

Restless, he throws back his covers and strides to the dying embers of the fire. No point in building it up just yet, so instead he watches the coals wink out, one by one. Things continue to move in Wonderland even if Time's having a hissy fit. It makes Gold's head hurt—he shakes it, attempting to wipe his mind like a child would wipe an etch-a-sketch.

He moves, in a dream-like slowness, across the room and through the door to Killian's. Inside, he finds the man sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pocket watch in a hundred pieces by his feet.

“Morning, mate,” Killian murmurs as he lifts a tiny gear, examining it in the low light of the crackling fire. “At least, I think it's morning.”

“Not yet.” Gold sinks into a similar position, the pieces of the watch putting them less than a foot apart. He lifts the chain still attached to the back part of the watch. “I recognize this.”

“Mm.” Killian frowns and lowers the gear, carefully selecting another one. “From your shop.”

“Yes.” Like everything, it once belonged to one of the residents of Storybrooke, though Gold cannot remember which one. There was a time when he could name every item and its owner, but in the last year or so it's just... ceased to matter. He doesn't care anymore—he just wants to be left alone.

Mostly alone?

He thinks of what he asked the mirror, and flushes. Ducks his head to let his hair swing forward, brushing against the heat in his cheeks.

“You like to tinker.”

Killian's eyes flick to his and he smiles, something crooked and a little broken. “There's something... ah, hell, what's the word? It feels... not good. Satisfying? To break something and put it back together. Like I've made it mine.”

“Cathartic,” Gold offers, and Killian nods.

The fire pops as the logs break apart and settle. Gold settles with them, leaning forward and watching through half-lidded eyes as Killian slowly fits the pieces together. The firelight flicks and teases at the black of his hair, the reflective surface of his eyes, the tarnished gold of the watch... Gold blinks, slow. There is heat at his back, the warmth of a body at his front. He sways, and Killian's hands are on his shoulders, lips forming words that he hears as senseless sounds through a thick fog.

Rather randomly, he thinks he'd like to see Killian done up in autumn's colors, and smiles at the thought.

“Mate?” Killian chuckles at whatever expression is currently on Gold's face. “Think you should go back to bed.”

Gold hums agreement, but only leans his weight more fully into strong hands. “Killian.” He struggles to lift his head—is it the warmth making him lust so strongly for another chance at rest, or the company? He shakes his head to toss the thought aside for later.

“Yeah?”

Gold sighs. Staring down, barely-open eyes hazily fixed on Killian's boots, it's easy to ask, “What do you feel?”

“Feel?” Killian parrots, and it's enough to jerk Gold back from the soft precipice of sleep.

“Nothing.” Gold surges to his feet and stumbles back, hand reaching blindly for the doorknob. “Nothing, I'm...”

There is no lock on the door between their rooms. Gold finds himself staring at the knob for a good five minutes after he's closed it, every muscle tense in preparation for it to turn.

When it never does, he stumbles to his bed and buries himself beneath the pillows.

 


	5. Chapter 5

When Gold wakes for the second time, the fire is roaring and Killian is crouched beside it in...

“Autumn's colors,” Gold murmurs. Killian's shoulders perk up like a dog's ears, but he doesn't turn.

The pillow is soft, the thick blanket warm without being suffocating. Gold burrows in just a bit more, grips it in loose fists and pulls it in against his body as he watches Killian prod at logs with a poker. The clothes are strangely modern Earth—brown leather jacket, burnt-orange scarf, faded green shirt, black jeans, boots nearly the same color as the jacket. It's such a sharp contrast to the pirate's usual black with a splash of red that Gold can't help but drink in the sight.

“The clothes just sort of appeared on the end of my bed,” Killian says finally. He hasn't turned around, but Gold is more than a little certain the pirate can feel the weight of his gaze at the back of his neck.

“Interesting.” Perhaps the spell within the castle is capable of adapting to its residents in ways that went beyond the feel of a room. “You look...”

_Very handsome_ trips over the tip of his tongue to meet a messy end against his teeth. He gnashes at the remains a moment—it would count, he thinks, as the first move. It would be so simple, just two little words.

He tosses back the covers and swings his legs out of bed, sighing. It occurs to him that he hasn't changed in days—just abused his magic for a bit of maintenance. No sooner does he think it than a new suit materializes at the end of his bed. The pants and jacket are his usual black, but the shirt is a vibrant green that would match Killian's if the color wasn't faded. No tie. 

There's a washroom just next door; when Killian shows no signs of moving, Gold takes the clothing in there. The bath itself is tempting—it's set deep into the floor and surrounded by the same stonework that makes up the hearth. Little, colored glass vials are clustered into one corner, and the ache to discover the contents of each one is sharp in his chest. 

He could make Killian wait... but this chance is too fragile. He settles for simply changing, and exploring a few of the bottles also clustered around the sink. One in particular catches his attention, a rich, thick scent that makes him think of pine trees and the aroma of earth just after the rain. He dabs just a bit along his neck—and is immediately assaulted by the image of Killian burying his face there, breathing in deep, a wolf seeking the reassuring smell of the familiar. 

“Oh,” he gasps. The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters across the tile.

“Mate?”

The scent should be overwhelming. His eyes should water and his nose should burn. Instead, it's more like sipping a rich drink, just shy of too-much, just enough on the side of pleasant to want to keep consuming. He sucks in a lungful of air thick with oil and staggers, back slamming into the door. 

“Oi! The bloody hell is going on in there?”

Another inhale, another flash of imagery, this time of Killian leaning back against him, Gold's arms around his waist, and how interesting that these tame scenes of intimacy seduce him more thoroughly than the filthiest of fantasies. 

One last inhale, and as he watches the perfume sizzles into an earthy-green smoke that begins to lazily dissipate. 

“Mirana,” he murmurs, giggles it a bit like he would as his Imp self. He thumps his head back against the door. She's shown him exactly what he was most afraid to face, given him the nudge he needs, and he resolves to show her the exact depths of his gratitude after...

Well. After whatever comes next.

He opens the door. Killian is just there, his eyes a little wide—his nostrils flare when Gold steps close.

“You look very handsome.” The words roll off his tongue with ease this time, skipping merrily over his teeth and out into the world. He offers the crook of his elbow and a crooked smile. “Walk with me?”

Killian blinks. His eyes dart between Gold's arm and his face. 

“Where?” He asks.

“Around.” Gold's smile widens. “I've an idea the scenery outside has changed, and I'd like your company.”

There's a second, just a flicker of self-doubt, but Gold holds firm and is rewarded—slowly, Killian hooks his arm through Gold's, settling in against his side like he belongs there; the thought it so right that it sends a shiver skittering down Gold's spine. 

“You, um...” Killian ducks his head, mumbles, “You look nice, too,” to his boots, all bashful boy. 

“Thank you, dearie.”

~

As Gold suspected, the scenery has indeed changed.

The trunks of the trees are still the same, still a washed-out white, but now there are leaves where there were pale blossoms, deep reds and golds and oranges. The white marble walkways have shifted to well-tread paths of dirt strewn with sticks and fallen leaves. The air is crisp and sharp, hinting at the first bite of winter. A stone bench sits just beneath the outstretched branches of a particularly large tree; Gold guides Killian there and urges him to sit. He keeps their arms linked—in the privacy of his mind, he is willing to admit that he is afraid this strange, peaceful spell between them will be broken if he lets the pirate go for even one second.

“How?” Is all Killian asks.

“Magic,” Gold replies. A different magic, he's coming to realize. In his world—hell, in so many worlds—there is a price for magic, whether it be dark or light. Here, magic itself isn't one or the other, it simply is. It is, if he's correct, symbiotic—it needs the person and much as the person needs it. 

It leaves so much room for play, for mischief and frivolity and the simple joy of  _fun,_ and he wants it. He reaches for it, testing, and finds the unexpected rush of a warm welcome. 

“Okay, why?” 

Gold chuckles. Curious boy. “Why not?”

That coaxes a laugh from the pirate. “I suppose that's as good an answer as any.”

They sit in silence for a time after that. Birds have been added to the environment, and Gold closes his eyes to listen to the variety of cheeps and chitters. He leaves them closed when he feels the slow, steady press of warmth into his side, and finally lets go of Killian's arm when it becomes clear that he's not going anywhere—is, in fact, trying to get much closer. 

He wraps that arm around Killian's waist instead, cups his fingers over a hipbone and shivers at the thrill. 

“What's this scent?” Something brushes over the skin of Gold's throat and he damn near stops breathing. He tips his head to the side, just a bit, inviting. “It's nice.”

“Found it in the washroom.” There, a hint more pressure. Such a little touch, yet it pools under his skin and sinks right down into muscle, warm and everywhere. “Killian?”

“Hm?”

“Did this count?”

Killian hums, considering. He nuzzles against Gold's throat and then sits back with a breathless little laugh, teasing—when Gold opens his eyes he finds the little boy gone, the daring rogue with the dark, challenging eyes in his place.

“Almost.” Killian grins and Gold finds himself grinning back. 

“Guess I'll have to keep trying.”

“Yeah.” Killian leans back against the bench, leaving a reassuring hand cupped over Gold's thigh. “Do that.”

They fall back into a peaceful silence... until the March Hare makes an appearance, bursting out from the leaves of a tree across the path, somersaulting through the air while hurling handfuls of salt at them. He yelps out a handful of sounds and (possibly) words as he lands, points an accusing paw (and ear) at the castle, and stomps off down the path muttering about teacups.

Brushing salt from his jacket (and Killian's hair), Gold says, “I think we've been summoned.”

“Is that what that was?” Killian shakes salt from his sleeves, and then he suddenly laughs, so hard and sudden that he throws his head back. 

“This place isn't boring,” he gasps—his smile is wide, eyes bright with mirth.

Gold smiles back.

 


End file.
